Hell's Bells
by Chimerical Knave
Summary: Two rivals, Al and Dex, unknowingly contribute towards major events in Lylat. Backdoor deals, assassinations, and a bit of romance finding. What more could one ask for? Setting - predates James McCloud himself.
1. Accosted Pt 1

**Accosted**

* * *

A lone form prowled the streets of Corneria City as the night started to creep. He sauntered on the sidewalk, almost gliding, a black hat and wool coat obscuring his head and his steps, respectively. Occasionally, striped patterns of light made it past the brim of the hat, revealing his vivid, bright green eyes. He ignored the glaring lights as well as the locals' on the steps of apartments, taking care to avoid the homeless beggars.

On the corner of Main Street stood a prominent hotel: The Ulster. Busy businessmen, perky politicians, and backdoor deals constantly flowing through its revolving doors; and for those leaving, their muzzles loosened by a couple drinks and then some. The air ran with the colors of haze and the stench of hard liquor.

A shabby local bar next to the hotel also saw its fair share of customers that night. Its worn stone steps leading up to the propped open door testified to the many paws from the past and present. Since night recently fell, many of the older patrons retreated to their hotel rooms and in came the rowdy youngsters. Those late-nighters. Them trouble-starters.

Amidst loud tones, the occasional laughter, and the clinking of ice cubes against glass, a svelte fox slipped past patrons and headed straight for the crowded bar stools past the booths. He let his body flop down onto the seat, packed between a jaguar and a squirrel. His tail followed soon thereafter.

"Scotch." Looking at the jaguar chatting away adjacent to him, added, "Please."

The terrier, in his black vest, smiled. "Certainly sir." He returned with a glass and then pulled a dark amber filled glass from a taller shelf behind him, getting on his toes to reach. He set the intricately designed glass bottle on the counter. The bartender wriggled the cork free and it let out a resounding pop. It sloshed inside the crystal glass. The fox put his paw up as the bartender reached for cubes of ice.

He turned and left with his drink, leaving behind a wad of credits on the counter and a dumbfounded bartender. He picked a secluded booth in a corner and brought the glass to his muzzle.

"Well, if it ain't our good garbage man. Didn't think your pampered pelt would show up in a place like this. Done taking out the trash? Celebrating?" A graying wolf with a right eye-patch helped himself to the space across from the fox. He wore a similar full-length coat.

The fox put down his glass and smiled. "Fancy meeting you here. No, I'm actually having a drink right before my night shift. Speaking of which, don't you look dressed for the occasion?"

The wolf pulled out a cigarette and lit it, blowing a stream of smoke into the fox's face. "Al! Y'think I'm working right now? I can't get a job these days with you strutting around. The nights a little chilly, that's all. Anyway, let's drink and put work behind us, eh?"

Al grunted and drained his glass in a swing. "Like that knife in my shoulder? Barely missed my heart. Dex, I'm starting to think that your reputation exceeds you." Then throwing in a hearty smile. "Well, what little of it remains."

Dex's good eye shot open, eyebrows rising. He smirked while his paws found something in his pocket. "Careful Al. Next time it'll go where it hurts."

Al pushed back his jacket to reveal the bottom of a holstered blaster. "I'd like to see you try that; see, you aren't the fastest anymore, geezer."

And so the staring contest ensued. Time froze for both, waiting for someone to make a move. It took the sound of laughter in the booth across from them to break the deadly glares.

Dex shrugged, pulling a travel-flask of clear liquid from his pocket. Pouring it into Al's glass he said, "Mighty fancy watch you got there. Cost you a tail?"

He sniffed the contents, swirling it around. Gin. Pointing to his right eye, said, "Nah. Just an eye."

Dex's fur bristled and he revealed his fangs. "Heh. One drink loosened your tongue already?"

Al took a second to cover up his weapon before raising his glass. "Eh, you'll have to pay for more if you _really_ want that."

Dex followed Al's example. "Right. Ever since you became their pet you've been underpaid and scraping by, eh? Sell that watch then."

The fox grinned. "Why waste this watch on a drink when you're here?"

"Stuck-up bastard."

Clink.


	2. Accosted Pt 2

**Accosted, Still**

* * *

A young fox sat on the side of the puddling road, a trash-can lid acting like a hat to provide what little cover from the bleak Cornerian rain.

He sat there almost as if he'd been born there or as if he was waiting to reach some sort of higher state of mind through a standstill meditation in the heavy rain.

The only word that would correctly justify the fox's purpose on that gloomy day would be: homeless.

Or maybe orphan? Or a bit of both?

Either way, his tin can of "please-spare-me-anything" wasn't there in front. It was in his box right next to him. No use anyways. It's raining and he didn't want wet credits. Not that he was expecting anybody to donate in such shitty weather circumstances.

But at least he was able to get a shower.

He almost dropped his trash can hat as the late afternoon rinse was overpowered by the rattling of firepower.

He lived in the southern side of Corneria where it was bad but he knew to beg for change in the northern parts. The northern parts were not usually prone to violence . . . especially not deadly violence.

The fox could hear the splashes of footsteps approaching. He apprehensively awaited the foreigner in these well-off parts.

The perpetrator of the disturbance was a lightly spotted gray wolf. As he neared, the fox noticed the eye-patch covering his right. _So young yet already so defined?_ He wore a tan raincoat that would otherwise easily conceal weapons had he not been running and letting it billow out behind him. The fox saw an assortment of knives and tools strapped all over his waist, legs, and chest. He could not discernibly detect any actual firearms on him.

He ran past the fox without a second glance.

Soon after, the small mob of disgruntled faces came.

They spread out, hungry eyes searching for their prey. The fox immediately thought, "that wolf isn't going to survive this fight." The odds were against him. He was a young wolf, maybe with some experience but without any "real" weapons. He was up against five of these hard-trained killers apparently sent to hunt him down.

The fox was curious to see how long the wolf would hold up.

But his opinion of the would-be, wanna-be gunslingers changed fast.

One of the gun-toting desperados suddenly wanted to be a badass. He called out to the fox. "Watch it ya. Wanta start somethan?"

The fox just stared back quietly.

"Ey you, I'm talkeen ta ya ya leetle shit. Didya see a wuf?"

The fox reached for something in his box.

The weasel cocked his overpaid rifle at him. "Old it."

He pulled out a DIY slingshot forged from metal and high-grade military rubber. Tossed rubber that didn't make it to the tank treads but still doable for many other things.

The weasel laughed. "Ey, lookay this sheet. He's tryin ta git himsel keeled."

The husky replied back, "Can it, Worms. Stay focused on the wolf if you don't want your face to be filleted."

"A right! Let me jus sock this un farst."

As the weasel neared the fox and lowered his guard for a split second the slingshot was pulled back with a single fluid motion and incredible speed. A bolt flew into the right eye of the weasel at six feet in the rain.

He screamed and readied his gun as blood and water blinded his good eye. But, of course, by then the fox had already run down the alleyway.

"E's workin wit day wuf! Git him!"

The weasel tried to run in the bloody, rainy blinding rain but ended up worsening his vision. The fox quickly turned a corner as a burst of laser bolts flew into the wall and all around.

_Terrible shot._ But then, he couldn't really be blamed. One eye, running, and in rain. The odds were not in the weasel's favor.

_The mysterious wolf might actually have a chance after all._

He rushed past a small, decorative park. The sounds catching up behind took a quick glance behind. The weasel was nowhere to be seen but two huskies were clearly catching up on him.

_Fox on the run. _He laughed._ And so the hunt begins._

He led them on a long chase through the northern part of the city, taking all the short cuts and hidden passages that he knew but he couldn't shake them. They were, at the very least, smart enough not to try and shoot while running like the weasel. They would only attract unwanted attention while wasting ammunition.

As young as the fox was, he was fast but underfed and malnourished compared to the huskies. He was running out of breath and soon . . . he would be dead.

The thought kept his heart and spirit racing.

_Just a few more streets and I'll be able to duck into my hideout. If those huskies try to start something at this hour in my area . . ._

Walking into the southern part, especially where he lived, toting guns was an invitation to start a gang war. And gang wars in this part of town were like small wars.

_Wait. Only one pair of footsteps now. Shit, how long have they been split up? A movement in the alley up ahead. The whine of a gun._

He instinctively ducked and rolled as a burst of hot energy sizzled the rain where his head used to be.

The sling fired off another bolt into the alley. The shout of agitation arose as the bolt connected and shots careened up into the air. "Fucking nearly got my eye!"

With more time on his paws, the fox quickly ducked behind a metal industrial trashcan.

By then the husky had steadied his rifle and was shooting again. The whine of energy bolts was almost synonymous with the shrill scream that arose in the alleyway.

The rain deafened once more.

It was followed quickly by the other husky's voice.

"Shit! It's him! It's the Del-

His voice gargled off and the rain covered it.

_He said Del. Does that mean that the wolf is . . . _

He heard steps approaching the trash can and tightened his grip on the sling. When he was confident enough that the intruder was close enough to be shot in the eye, he threw his shoe to the right and positioned himself on the left for the shot.

_Christ! He's quick._

The bolt flew toward the wolf's face but he picked it out of the air and closed the distance fast. The slingshot was knocked out of his paw and he was on the ground with a serrated knife against his throat in a matter of seconds. They both sat there panting as they took a good look at each other.

The wolf broke the rain.

"You're good, I'll give you that. Got potential that's for sure."

The fox glared back with bared teeth. "You gonna gut me or what?"

This seemed to faze the wolf for a second. Like it surprised him that such a youngster would be ready to die.

He took this chance to punch the wolf. This didn't faze him one bit.

The wolf grinned. "Oh, you've got some spirit in you. What's your name fox?"

The fox just stared back before he grudgingly admitted, "Alfonzo Caprica."

The wolf's grin widened and he loosened the pressure on Alfonzo's neck. "Interesting name for a fox." Then added, "Why'd you interfere in my fight? I usually don't let people who take my kill off the hook so easily."

"Because he got in my way. Your kill or not. He was bothering me."

"Al, you know what they call me on the streets?"

A rising thrill rose in his chest. Something like . . . fear.

"I'm called the Deli-Man."

Al shuddered under the weight and felt dizzy.

_The Deli-Man._

__Al swallowed his rising fear and forced his voice-box to operate.

"Why didn't you kill me when I saw you then?"

"Well," the wolf pondered, "I didn't have enough time and I figured those other guys would take care of you. But looks like you took care of them."

He produced the bolt that Alfonzo fired. "You're one hell of a shot, know that? The closest to getting my other eye."

"I should kill you to keep rumors from spreading that a kid almost took my eye out but . . . you've definitely got potential."

The wolf got up and brought the fox to his knees and handed him a pistol.

"Know how to handle one of these?"

It felt large and alien in his paws but at the same time . . . it felt so right.

Alfonzo didn't reply but cocked the gun. "What's your name first?"

"After you prove yourself useful."

They both headed off back to where the grunts were.

* * *

Alfonzo now understood why he was called the Deli-Man. The way he used his knife. But it was so beautifully done and so deftly executed. It was almost like an art . . . the art of killing. Deli-Man sounded too unrefined for him now. He deserved a better title. He didn't walk around with some cleaver and lob limbs off. He murdered with a passion. His tools of the trade were knives and his art was the hundreds of ways they would be used against all parts of your body.

Alfonzo managed to kill the weasel. He had made it clear that the weasel was his. The first shot had missed from prior miscalibration. But Alfonzo had adjusted accordingly to the shots trajectory and the second one found the other eye.

"So, the first shot missed."

Alfonzo threw the gun at him. "It was miscalibrated."

"I knew it was. Just wanted to see how good of a shot you were. You're better than anybody that I've seen. Adjusting on the fly like that . . . and only on the first shot too."

"So now that you've used me. How are you going to kill me?"

The wolf whistled. "Such a cynical mind. I said that if you proved yourself useful then I'd tell you my name. It's Dexter. But just call me Dex from now on."

The fox waited as the wolf walked up to him. Half expecting the wolf to pull out his knife and scalp his head or twist his neck. When the wolf raised his paw, Alfonzo flinched.

The wolf was amused. "Still don't trust me . . . Alfonzo?"

Alfonzo shook it. "Call me Al."

"Good. Help me strip these bodies. They don't like it when I leave my mess around. Like they say, clean up after your shit."

_Could this really be the Deli-Man? He doesn't act at all what they portray him to be._

And so, the hardest task was performed with Dex that day: carrying and hiding all the bodies.

But Al would never forget the words that he lived by since that day.

"Al, you're going to be a garbage-man."

* * *

"Sir?"

_Garbage. Always dealing with shit._

"Sir?"

Al forced his eyes open. The terrier stood before him, seeming to wobble one way then another.

_Where the hell am I?_

He stumbled to his feet from the booth, shrugging the terrier off. And then looking to his watch: 11:47.

_Fuck._

Al concentrated on getting out the door before he figured out the reason why he was late.

_Dex, you piece of shit._

It was then Al checked the inside of his coat. _Ah, at least he had the decency to leave me my gun._

The bartender stood shock still, staring at the black beauty.

"For your troubles." Al gave him another wad of credits and silently left.

_But what about my troubles? Does anyone ask me about my troubles?_

He checked into The Ulster without using his special-super-secret government card (_As Dex used to call it) _in case it brought attention to himself.

_This hit should be easy. A small time politician. Maybe he has a bodyguard or two. Maybe he has no bodyguards._

He had two bodyguards.

Both dead.

Al rushed to the door which was already picked and pulled out his gun even though he already knew that the politician was dead.

He flicked the lights on and stepped into the room.

The politician, a plump bird, lay on his presidential king-sized bed. His plumage ruffled and some scattered around him like some modern art piece. He had been killed without much of a struggle and with no weapons. _A clean kill._

_Movement from the balcony._

Al jerked his gun to the balcony and fired twice. Something hit the deck.

He stepped outside to find another bodyguard on the ground.

Realizing his mistake, he got up as a dark figure dropped on him and kicked him back into the room. His gun skidded across the hardwood floor.

He pulled out his spare but a piece of metal twirled through the air with incredible force and knocked it out of his paw.

_I've got another one._

The next one was unexpected to the assassin. Al fired at the looming figure in the balcony and it hit right where he wanted. _Headshot._

The figure cursed and then collapsed.


	3. Thunderstruck

**Thunderstruck**

* * *

Al stood up and dusted himself off. "Nice try Dex, but you've grown slow."

Al barely heard the tread of a footstep behind him. He spun around and cocked his gun. A powerful paw grasped it and held it to where he couldn't pull the trigger. The other paw held Al's throat lightly, all because he had decided to place his arm in front to offer some protection. He tried to force his way forward.

_Oh . . . right._

Dex muscled him back, tripping Al on his second gun and falling onto the bed.

Dex breathed into Al's face. "What was that?"

There wasn't much that Al could do in the compromising situation with his hands restricted and legs pinned.

_But there isn't much Dex can do without letting go._

"Well, you have gotten quieter. Quite the creeper. Going to let me go now?"

Dex eyed his prey for a moment. "I dunno. You look so helpless and all."

Al revealed a canine grimace before slamming his head into Dex's. The room shook and Dex's legs loosened up for just a split second.

Al brought his knees up and kicked out while pulling his upper torso back. Dex's grip was ripped from Al's arm and hand. His only weapon too.

Al's gun dangled off of Dex's paw. He sported a grin. "Nice headbutt . . . nice toy too." He threw it behind him and reached behind him, pulling out a knife.

Al spread his hands out in front of him in a nonviolent gesture. "Now, now. That isn't very fair."

The knife jumped from one paw to the next. "Since when did I ever play fair?"

Dex rushed Al.

The first slash, Al ducked underneath while the second one, he blocked . . . barely.

Dex realigned his knife on his paw and leaned back slightly. "You've gotten better. Mentoring you was a mistake."

Dex kicked out at Al but he sidestepped and threw a jab at Dex's left rib.

He grunted in pleasure. "Put some back into it!"

Al obliged and reared back for another punch. He let the knife skim his face and then let loose another shot at his ribcage.

"That barely tickled. You a hitman?" Dex picked Al up and threw him.

He landed awkwardly on top of the dead politician before pushing him aside. Dex got on top of Al instantly. With his limbs finally free, Al wrapped his legs around Dex's waist and grappled his free arm, stopping the knife from entering his shoulder blade again.

Dex was turned onto his back as Al rolled over. "Oh ho ho. Trying to submit me?"

Al managed to lock Dex's arm into an arm-bar. "You going to?"

"That's mighty cute."

Al strained with all his might, hoping to perhaps even get Dex to feel something. He pushed his arms harder and harder, muscles straining and sweat collecting.

He was rewarded with the knife falling and laughter.

Dex broke free with ease and then turned the world upside down, and Al found himself on the bottom once more.

With his airway cut off and his trigger arm in a similar position as Dex's just a few seconds earlier, there wasn't much Al could do at this point except do the sensible.

Al growled.

"What was that? Can't hear you."

Al turned his head sideways. "I yield!"

Dex let up and roughed up his head. "That's a good pup."

Al caressed his arm and flexed his fingers. "I detest that name."

"On the contrary, I believe you love it." Dex smirked when Al shot him a look and another growl.

Al checked out his watch. "Lucky you didn't scratch it. This was worth a tiny fortune."

"So does that watch help?"

"No but I'm on a limited salary and I can only afford these things every so often."

Dex shook his head. "A limited salary, right."

Al pulled out his hit-comm and tapped it. "Well, if you'll excuse me. I'm busy. Booked a flight to Zoness."

"Getting your paws done? Well, catch you later pup." Dex waved out the door before Al could reply.

* * *

**Zoness**

**Half-Moon Islands**

**Isle Arcadia**

XXXxxxxXXXxxxxXXX

Al sat on a customized chair that had been paw-assembled by the locals, the material of which was all woven and stitched likewise. The Zonessian tropical plants to either side of him, providing a fine shade, were told to have been paw-planted some many odd years ago. The horticulturalists have all since been keeping up with every plant on the island to ensure optimal aesthetic beauty to the wealthy patrons.

The glass of special brewed spirits had been muzzle blown, the spirits themselves, all small batch crafted from the island's privately held distillery. The straw Al just took a sip from was 100% biodegradable.

The lightly oranged vixen rubbing the relaxation lotion into his tired feet had specialized in massage therapy for the past five years at a prestigious university. The lotion itself was an organic mixture of some of the finest ingredients that one hundred credits could buy.

Though it set Al back a couple hundred for a small portion of that same lotion.

_It's worth the atmosphere and the view._

Al stole a glance at the curvy vixen's body and then back to the sapphire-clear water. She never took notice. Not that she would even if he hadn't been wearing his Viceroy shades.

_Maybe a bit too curvy. At least her thighs have been toned. Must work out._

He took another sip and closed his eyes. If he could have waggled his tail, he would've. Except that it was extremely unprofessional.

_And immature._

"Roxy?"

The masseuse looked up; polite but questioning.

"Do you mind if you get my shoulders?"

She smiled. "You haven't paid for that session but I think you deserve it."

After his impromptu session, he made his way through the modern-esque building, built from the Cornerian's lead aesthetic architect who had, of his own ferret accord, volunteered to design the Isle Arcadia himself. Whether or not the ferret had been paid is still at the speculation of many.

He was familiar with the white-washed walls and nearly everyone here; he especially had a fondness for the bartender.

Isle Arcadia is known for its exclusiveness and exoticness. The bartender was definitely one of exotic nature and tendencies. He was, perhaps, one of several handfuls in all of Lylat.

"Svekda, how are you my friend?"

The massive reptilian behind the counter grinned and put down his glass and rag. "Al, sso nicce of you to drop by. It'ss been a while, no?"

"Well, work must come first," then grunting, "as usual."

"Sspeaking of which, what can I get for you today, ssir?"

Al slapped some credits down. "For one, you can cut the crap. And formalities. Then get me my usual."

Svekda pocketed them readily, his forked tongue flicking out amusingly. "Well then, which usual will it be? The first or second usual?"

"It's been that long? Eh, I guess the second."

Svekda got to pulling out several bottles and mixers, his tail curling around an open shaker and prepping its use. For a large reptilian surrounded by so many delicate intricacies, it never failed to impress Al the finesse that it required not to sweep destruction with his muscled tail.

And just like that, within the span of a few straying thoughts, Al's drink was strained, set, and garnished.

"Now tell me that isn't the best drink ever."

Al took a sip and nodded. "It's good. But still just second."

Svekda crossed his scaly arms. "One of these days, you'll make it your first."

The two engaged in some small talk of work, well, what little Al could actually impart without compromising his position. So far, Al was the CEO of an operation part of the private sector that specialized in making sure that bad records were wiped clean and off the face of Corneria in the most legal way possible. When inquired of what these methods may be, Al merely shrugged and said, "I can't divulge the information but just know that we are backed by the government. Just not financially."

_At least, not publicly._

These quiet and rather uninterrupted moments of tranquility, away from the clutters and shambles of work were all too often . . . interrupted.

It caught him so off guard.

_Thunderstruck._

Al's hit-comm buzzed. Svekda looked away and took no notice. Al's disposition gradually drew taunt and serious. Svekda, did, however, note this and began grabbing some bottles and another shaker.

For an exclusive resort, there was only one rule that was made sure to be enforced: no technology. Even though the island was constructed to where no signals could reach, Al's hit-comm _was_ engineered for the sole purpose of overcoming those obstacles.

For the most part, Al's considerate tipping had left him unscathed to many of the diligent workers there. Svekda was no exception.

Al put away his hit-comm. "Sorry Svekda, but this meeting will have to be cut short."

Svekda nodded and as Al got up he put a cup on the table. "A first, for the flight?

Al stared at the drink; considering . . . contemplating.

Then he grabbed it and waved. "Thanks."


End file.
